


What's Lost

by Jadis



Series: Transformation [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mycroft - OOC, Mycroft's Meddling, Post Reichenbach - AU after S3 Premieres
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadis/pseuds/Jadis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His world once again crashing at his feet, John finds himself back in a bedsit after a painful breakup from his almost-fiancée, Mary Morstan.  How many times can a man put himself back together?</p><p>A call from his mum asking him to visit catches John by surprise.</p><p>Upon his arrival at his childhood home, John finds Mycroft-effing-Holmes in his parents’ living room.  It wouldn’t be the first time a Holmes had turned his life on its ear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's Lost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [L_Morgan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Morgan/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Once More, With Feeling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/256293) by [cellard00rs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellard00rs/pseuds/cellard00rs). 



> This is my first foray into the Sherlock (TV) fandom. There will be a second part of this series, however, this is a stand alone and doesn't need the next bit.
> 
> Many thanks to redcarrigan. I so loved John's family home that I co-opted it for this story.
> 
> As fate would have it: I own nothing and this is for entertainment only.

_“The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.” – Carl Jung_

 

“I’m advising you,” Mycroft said, his voice raised. “Do something. Now. You’re killing him.”

“I’m killing him more surely by showing myself,” Sherlock said, his voice almost a hiss. “They’ll put a bullet in his brain, as you well know.”

“Would you prefer he does it himself?” Mycroft asked.

“Don’t be ABSURD!” Sherlock said the words blasting out like buckshot.

“His Browning, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his tone as unaffected as ever.

Striding out of shadows of the ensuite bath in the Divani Caravel Hotel in Athens one part of Sherlock’s mind was asking ‘Could there be a bigger waste of government funds than this ridiculously pompous four room suite?’ He moved directly into Mycroft’s personal space. ‘Then again,’ he thought the tone in his own head vicious, ‘waste of government funds & pompous’ as he gave his brother his most withering look. Mycroft, of course, didn’t flinch, never did.

Eyes darting all over Mycroft, Sherlock took in his stance, his body language, his scent and of course his face. “You’re. Lying.”

“Am I?” Mycroft asked, his face a study in impassivity. He reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out his phone. “I must be going. Think about what I’ve said.”

“Of course,” Sherlock spat. “You called me here to give me some vague warning offering up no other course of action and now you’re going to go after another lost cause: the Greek economy. Enjoy your visit,” he said, voice dripping in sarcasm.

He turned to go his hand on the door handle.

“There are consequences to be had, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his voice softer.

Furious, Sherlock whirled, speaking through gritted teeth. “What else could I have done? He would be dead now.”

“I’m not sure he is more than a walking ghost now.”

“Yes, but why?” Sherlock asked. “I’ve had reports. I’ve seen pictures.”  Uncharacteristically he fumbled his hand in his trouser pocket as he pulled out a phone. Quickly unlocking it, Sherlock pulled up pictures, scanning them as fast as he could text. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked thrusting a picture of John that was particularly unflattering: his shoulders slumped, hair greyer, dark purplish bags under his eyes, mouth turned grim. “What is wrong with him?”

Mycroft sighed and Sherlock saw a look of pity briefly appear around his brother’s eyes. “Sherlock,” he said voice full of sympathy. Love.

Suddenly Sherlock was once again a 6 year old child, rushing into Mycroft’s outstretched arms after classes were dismissed for the day.

Sherlock hadn’t spoken until very late, never one for making ridiculous half words which made sense to no one. But when he finally spoke, at a precocious five and a half years, it had been in complete sentences. Further, he’d also been able to speak fluent Spanish, albeit with a somewhat questionable dialect given he’d learned it from their parents’ gardener.

His complete command of the English language had been off-putting to the older boys in the primary school. Truth be told, it was to the teachers as well.

The boys teased him relentlessly calling him names which, when he tried to correct them for not having a complete grasp of the definition of the word they’d used, they in turn pummeled him. And yet, Sherlock would not cry.

Not until he was safely back on the estate, up the long mahogany stair case, shoes making no noise on the deeply carpeted stairs, throwing open the door to his brother’s room, launching himself into Mycroft’s arms.

Within a week, Sherlock had been taken out of that school and had finished his early childhood education at home, schooled by private tutors.

Staring now at Mycroft, Sherlock knew that regardless of what had passed between them since he was a child and now, his brother would be there, helping if he could.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “I know you have it within you. But for the sake of the good doctor I feel I must say this: if you cannot comprehend what is causing his stress, then perhaps it is best to leave him be.”

“He is or was engaged,” Sherlock said, voice and face suddenly devoid of emotion. “I fail to see how I could possibly be responsible for his sudden reversal of happiness.”

Mycroft tilted his head, and gave his brother the ‘don’t be purposely ridiculous’ look Sherlock remembered from his childhood. Yet his voice was soft. “Sometimes revelation shines a light, illuminating one’s losses all the more sharply. I can assure you John is not currently engaged, in any manner of speaking, with Ms. Morstan.”

Sherlock looked away, swallowed. When he turned back his eyes burned with purpose. “Bring him to me,” he demanded.

“How would you propose I do that?” Mycroft asked.

“You’re the Saint of Lost Causes,” Sherlock said, his voice airy. “I’m sure you can figure something out.” He looked back down at the picture on his phone. “Make it soon.”

“Finish this, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “Or I’ll finish it for you.”

This time when Sherlock turned to walk away he didn’t look back.

~ooOoo~

Months ago John had stopped looking in the mirror. He couldn’t bear to see the loss, the desperation and the self-loathing that churned through his body at all times, seemingly replacing his blood supply. It was there, in every line on his face, in the purplish bags permanently affixed below his eyes. Once again the stoop of his shoulders, the pain in his leg, the constantly clenching stomach screamed ‘defeat’.

How often could a man lose everything he had and survive it?

It had taken over two years but he’d felt alive again after meeting Mary. She made him smile, a genuine smile, for the first time since Sher – just ‘since’.

Mary was the epitome of all the things John wanted in a life partner. She was funny, engaging, and pretty in a normal sort of way.  She had a successful career.  She enjoyed making love.  Together they cooked dinners, settling together on a Mary’s chintz couch to watch telly, picking food off of each others’ plates.  But perhaps more importantly, Mary never hesitated to make John a cup of tea when she saw ‘a mood’ come over him.

She’d known what lay behind the dark moods. Like everyone else in London, she’d seen their faces slapped across all the newspapers and news programmes. She couldn’t have been more supportive.

And for a while it had been good between them. So very good.

John had looked forward to getting home at night, the nightly ritual of sharing stories about their day: Mary was the head mistress of a public school in just outside London and always had a cracker to tell.  After a time John felt like he knew the staff there and some of the students as well: the bright ones, the shy ones, and of course the disciplinary headaches that always come with schools. 

John would try to top Mary’s stories with his own ‘child’ woes: little Mandy Burroughs who had bit him when getting her jabs so she could start school the next year.  Bobby Drake who yelled into John’s stethoscope causing John’s ears to ring for 90 minutes afterward, making it very difficult to hear one of his regular pensioners, Mrs. Lovett, who had a very soft voice to begin with.  Ethan White, a boy so shy he’d never look John in the eye until the very end of the visit and say quietly, ‘thank you’.

As they’d whip up an easy Bolognese  over pasta they’d tease each other that one day it would be their own children other doctors and school administrators sat around their dinner tables moaning about. 

As Mary was the headmistress their children could attend the public school gratis. They’d mused that said children might be embarrassed by their less than posh parents and wondered if they’d pretend not to know them during school visits.

For a time, the nightmares had abated. Not only those from his days in Afghanistan but also those of losing – well, his entire world.  The feelings of guilt and loss, buried under the new love, and a future, a purpose.

He snorted, as he kept his eyes averted while brushing his teeth, careful not to knock off his electric razor balanced precariously perched on the uneven rim of the sink. Shaving with an electric razor by feel was much safer than using a manual razor, he’d found out the hard way.

There were easier ways to peace than a dull razor blade.

Of course, as it seemed with everything in his life, the happiness he’d found was only transitory.

The nightmares began again. A twisted amalgamation of mortar fire, burning heat and sand stinging any part of exposed flesh. Explosions jarred him, even in his sleep. With the acrid smoke burning his lungs, John led the medical team rushing toward the bombed out convoy.  Scrambling over the ever-shifting terrain beneath their boots John fell to his knees at a bloodied soldier, automatically opening his medkit and gently grasping the soldier’s shoulder, turning him to him to assess the damage.

He’d frozen, unable to breathe, his own heartbeat loud in his ears, all other noise fading away: the body was Sherlock’s. He’d watched in horror as Sherlock’s blood was greedily swallowed by the all consuming sands beneath his broken body. Desperately John tried to hold onto his best friend as the body beside him slowly disappeared: wind and sand pulling Sherlock apart and away, molecule by molecule.

Mary would sooth him through the nightmares, holding him while he cried. It was as if the loss of Sherlock was brand new again.

Then the nightmares turned more poisonous. And for these he couldn’t turn to Mary for comfort. Even more insidious: these nightmares followed him into consciousness.

Beginning the very night after he’d visited a jewelry store in Hatton Garden to put a deposit on an engagement ring, John had awakened, his heart beating as if he’d just run through the belly of London, sweat on his brow and desire pooling in his groin.

Inhaling deeply in the darkened bedroom with Mary sleeping peacefully beside him, he swore he smelled Sherlock: the smell of expensive soap, shampoo, tea and something just a bit chemical seemed imprinted all over his body. Slipping out of bed as quietly as possible he felt guilty for sneaking out of the bedroom and into the loo.

Closing his eyes, a hand and his head braced against the door, John clamped his mouth shut to keep from moaning as he took himself in hand, the dream washing over him: Sherlock kissing his way down John’s body, looking up with pupils blown wide with liquid desire as he licked those plush lips before dipping his head, swallowing John whole. He’d kept his eyes locked with John’s until John himself had broken the gaze, arching into the amazing wet heat, head thrown back eyes squeezed shut, coming so hard, far too soon, but it was okay. The dirty smirk on Sherlock’s told him he took it as a compliment.

“You’re amazing, John,” he’d said, voice rough with sex, pleased with himself as well, no doubt. Sherlock always loved preening like a peacock after exhibiting his expertise, his prowess.

Like the dream, it had taken almost no time before he was pulsing and spilling over his own hand, the orgasm just as hot and hard as the one his subconscious had supplied.

Not bothering to properly clean up, John turned, back to the door and slid to the cool tiled floor, wiping his hands on his boxers. What the _hell_ had that been all about?

They’d never been what everyone assumed they were. Or if they were a “couple” it had been platonic.

“It was just a dream,” John said to the empty room. “Just a dream.”

Yet the dreams continued, as realistic, as any sexual encounter John had ever had.

Ultimately, they had driven the wedge that put him back in his bedsit, alone and questioning his own sanity. Ruthlessly he reexamined his days with Sherlock. As a doctor he knew it was inadvisable to tear open wounds still barely healed, yet he did.

As per norm, Sherlock had observed far more than John had: he’d known from the moment they met: that, on some level, John had been attracted to the madman.

His dreams at night were so graphic, so _fucking_ good that during the daylight, John realized he had lost something he hadn’t even known was possible.

When his mobile rang he paused, not really sure what the noise was. No one called him. No one. Not anymore.

Not surgery where Sarah had originally taken him on full time, as a charity case. Now, once again with grief spilling from him, John imagined he could read her questioning her own decision from the way she bit her bottom lip and the tiny frown lines appeared upon her brow, observing him when she thought he wasn’t watching.

Harry had given up years ago.

Lestrade had phoned a few times but John couldn’t stomach him. He’d doubted. He’d betrayed them and he might have just as well had been the hand that – John forced himself to stop, to take deep breathes.

Clearly, not Mary.

Not even his parents: John checked in every two weeks, steeling himself for the call ahead of time.

The noise continued.

Crossing the bed-sit, he kept his eyes down, staring at the floor, a terribly utilitarian carpet, though it was barely more than linoleum for the feel of it under his feet.

The phone showed his parents number and he fumbled to answer it.  “’Allo,” he said.

“John?” his mum said.

“Yes mum,” he answered. “Everything alright?” Phone calls would be forever associated with bad news. Ever since Sherlock – John clamped down on the thought. Not now.

“Darling,” Emma Watson said. “I know it’s been a bad time for you.”

He huffed out a small breath, the perpetual knot in his stomach giving a heave and he leaned back against the arm of his chair for support.

“Your father and I – ” she paused.

“Mum,” John said, clearing his throat, putting on his doctor voice. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no, of course not,” she said. “I just….well, with things the way they are…what with you and your….well….” she trailed off.

John sighed. “What is it?” he asked. “Is there a problem?”

“Well, we’ve been thinking. And you losing your flatmate the way you did – ”

John squeezed his eyes closed, his gut twisting again. Most people were afraid to talk to him of his loss, even all this time later. Bless his mother for barging in where angels feared to tread.

“Well we thought it best if we put our affairs in order,” she said in a rush. “And we’d like to leave you in charge, if you understand my meaning.”

“Yes,” John said, forcing himself to take long deep breaths. They were just being precautious. Good. Right. Made sense actually. “I think I understand.”

“Well, we’d like to get it all sorted. The sooner the better. We’ve been round to the solicitors. And we need your signature to make it all official.”

John let out a long sigh, rubbing his eyes. “When?” he asked.

“The sooner the better, darling,” he heard his mother say. “When do you have some time off?”

“Tomorrow,” he said, surprising himself. “I’ve got a long weekend coming.” And while he knew those first few minutes home with his parents might be awkward, he recognized the danger in spending three days alone in London. It would be the first time he’d had three consecutive days off since he’d left Mary and since he’d realized what he’d lost. Again.

“I’ll be there before tea,” he said, heart heavy. “Alright?”

“Yes, darling,” she said, relief evident in her voice. “That would be just fine. Your dad is a bit tied up tomorrow,” she said. “Can you get a taxi from the station?”

“Yep,” he said. “Alright. Are you sure tomorrow is okay?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” she asked.

John frowned.  “Well, I mean, if Dad already has something on?  That’s what you said yeah?” 

“No, no,” she said rapidly. “Tomorrow is for the best, darling.”

“Okay, then” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”  In his head he was already putting together a ‘To Do’ list to get ready.

“Thanks, Darling,” she said. “Big hugs!”

Abruptly he was listening to nothing, his mother ringing off before he had a chance to respond. Very odd. Getting mum off the phone was often akin to escaping a boa constrictor: it took careful but consistent movement toward the end goal.

He felt his leg lock as he turned to pivot. He slammed his fist into the imaginary pain and forced it to move. There’d be none of that.

~ooOoo~

The steel barrel of his gun was cold against the small of his back, but John felt better having it than not. It had been a while since he’d allowed himself to open up the small gun safe he’d purchased after leaving 221B. After moving back to his own flatsit he often found himself gripping the key, the carved metal imprinting onto his palm. And that was okay. The key couldn’t hurt him.

Cinching up a messenger bag, his laptop stowed safely inside, John looked around the Spartan room. Nothing out of place. Nothing to see here.

He’d awakened earlier than normal, this morning. No nightmares nor erotic not-memories either. When the erotic dreams didn’t appear John felt almost bereft. But just a moment in the shower, skin slicked with wet warmth, it took his imagination no time at all to supply fantasy images of dark hair, pale eyes and skin and a mouth that felt like heaven.

But this morning he had a purpose. He was cheered at the thought of something breaking his routine. Getting out of London was a good idea. It would be good to breathe in clean air for a change.

As he was going to see his mother, he made himself look in the mirror this morning, do a proper job with a proper razor. What he saw staring back at him, after so many months of not looking, was his Dad.

He’d nodded at his reflection, thin lips tightened into almost a grimace. He’d lost more weight. He could see it in his face. Not a surprise really given he’d had to move his belt another notch in.

Still, it could be worse. So he nodded one more time, ignoring the smudges of purple under his eyes.

 _Don’t be an idiot,_ he told himself as he picked up his overnight bag, remembering the hollows in his cheeks. There was no place for vanity in his life.

Besides, a more pressing concern should be how much more alive he felt with the Browning warming against his bare flesh. Now _that_ that would give his therapist something to ponder.

~ooOoo~

The gods must have been smiling on him. The Tube wasn’t overly crowded, nor was the train.

As the train pulled further out of London, the speed picked up until the gentle rocking and rhythmic clicking on the tracks soothed John into a light doze so that even the stations being called out as they came up to them and glided to soft stops stayed slightly below his threshold of consciousness.

He’d gotten a taxi immediately at the station. All in all it was quite possibly the smoothest trip he’d ever made back home.

As when he was a child, before he could even knock, his mother was there, opening the door. She practically yanked him inside, her face doing a bit of a wibble.

“Mum?” he asked, the hairs standing up on the back of his neck. Flattening himself automatically against the door, John dropped his overnight bag, slid the messenger bag carefully to the ground, and pulled out his Browning.

“It’s quite alright,” a bored sycophantic voice called from the living room. “You can stand down, John.”

Blood and fury raced through John and he moved swiftly. In a flash he was standing in his mum’s living room the Browning trained on the remaining Holmes brother.

“Oh no,” he said. “What the hell are you doing in my parents’ house?”

He pulled back hammer.

“John!” his mother called, stepping toward him.

He spared her a glance but kept the gun trained, perfectly level, perfectly steady at the man he blamed for ….. “Mum. Stay out of this. Back out of the room, now!”

“But John,” She said. “He’s only - ”

“Mum!” John roared. “Now!”

He returned his full attention to Mycroft. “I should kill you where you sit.”

“For?” Mycroft asked voice infuriately calm.

“Breaking and entering,” John said. “And I dare say by the time I was done with the ‘crime scene’ it would look very convincing.” He sneered. “You see, I know a bit about crime scenes.”

“Now John,” Mycroft began.

“- No,” John interrupted. “I’m going to ask you one last time: what the hell are you doing in my parents’ house?”

“John!”

For the first time John wavered. But then firmed up his stance. “Dad,” he said his voice calm. “Please stay out of this.”

He turned back to Mycroft. “And your answer? To keep the bullet from your brain, Mycroft?”

The near smirk Mycroft almost always wore in John’s company faded. “I needed to speak with you,” he said. “Privately.”

“So,” John said, directed over his shoulder. “No estate paperwork then?” anger roiled in his belly to know his parents had been tricked into baiting him here and hurt stinging in his chest that they’d done so on the behest of Mycroft Holmes.

“Oh no,” his mum said. “I mean. Yes, Mr. Holmes here – ”

John winced

“He called upon us a fortnight ago. We’ve made all of the arrangements. Or rather, he and his lovely staff have. We can have you sign when we get back.”

He turned and stared, puzzled.

“Now don’t look that way, love.” She tutted. “We’ve got to be going to catch our train now. We’re having nice long weekend in Bath. Mr. Holmes has booked us First Class all the way. He’s been very good to us, dear.”

Against his better judgment, John decocked the gun, and replaced it in his jeans. He stared at Mycroft. But Mycroft was a master at hiding his tells. “What sort of ‘arrangements’?” he asked. Somehow he doubted it was just a weekend away.

“Why the new double glazing, and the freezer,” his mum said, as she fussed with a decorative scarf she was tying around her neck. There was excitement and hurry in her voice. “Now darling, please, let Mr. Holmes explain it all. We must dash if we’re going to meet our train.”

A move out of the window caught John’s eye and he saw one of the ubiquitous cars that screamed ‘Mycroft’ and ‘abuse of power’.

His mum moved closer now, and gave him a hug and a peck on his cheek. “There’s tea brewing and I’ve a nice crumb cake and ginger biscuits, both made fresh this morning.”

His father came in, worried eyes searching his son’s face. He pulled John into a brief bear hug. “Please son,” he said. “I know it’s hard. But try.”

His parents were moving toward the door and John caught sight of the bags peeking from inside the dining room which he’d missed upon his arrival.

“Oh – and darling,” his mum called. “There’s a bit of roast lamb and peas left from earlier this week, if you get peckish.”

A driver was now outside, opening the boot and the back passenger door.

John counted silently in his head until his parents were secure in the car and waving at him through the large window pane. “I’ll assume you’re not taking them off to slaughter,” he said, though refusing to look at Mycroft. Instead he was peering at the window sills.

“I won’t even dignify that with a response,” Mycroft said. “Your mother has given me the full tour. Shall I play mother?”

“Don’t you have staff for that?” John asked, testy. _‘And there’s a whole childhood in a nutshell.’_

“No,” Mycroft said. “For all practical purposes we’re alone.” He rose and moved into the dining room, and from the footfall went straight to the kitchen.

Obviously his mum had all but served it herself as quickly as Mycroft returned with a tray of tea and trimmings.

“Won’t you sit down, John?” he asked his tone achingly polite.

“That is rich,” John said. “Christ! This is my parents’ house and you’re inviting me to tea. In my parents’ house. My parents!”

“So it would seem,” Mycroft said. “Milk I believe?” he held up the creamer toward one of the tea cups.

A terse nod from John and Mycroft poured, the milk blooming in the black tea until it turned the color of caramel.  He accepted the proffered cup with as much grace as he could muster.

John sat in the chair across from the divan where Mycroft was perched. It was his dad’s usual haunt. John narrowed his eyes when it registered that Mycroft was about to rest his back upon one of the patchwork quilts his Gran had made. Shaking his head he tried to clear his thoughts wondering if he’d fallen down the rabbit hole.

After draining half of his teacup – and no way was the tea his mother’s standard PGTipps. It appeared Mycroft had his finger in that as well. “So what’s this about new double glazing? They just had those windows done not long after I invalided home.”

“I said,” Mycroft began, “‘I needed to speak with you in private, meaning where no one would overhear us.’ The only way I could do that was to ensure the glass met my exacting needs.”

John goggled. “Are they bullet proof as well?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. It wouldn’t be very safe if your parents needed to break them to escape – heaven forbid – a fire.”

“Silly me,” John said, rolling his eyes “What was I thinking? Of course.” He took another drink of the tea, internally damning his taste buds for really liking the posh stuff. God knew what Mycroft had paid for it.

“It is Whittard’s of Chelsea and not that ‘dear’ at all. I’ll send some round.”

“Thanks, but no,” John said, putting the almost empty cup down with a clink. “Now that we’ve been civilized, are you ready to tell me what you want? Why you’ve gone to all of this,” he waved his hand at the windows, and the tea, “trouble to speak to me. Any reason we couldn’t have done this in London? Saved getting my parents involved in whatever covert operation you’re working on now?”

Mycroft smiled and John felt cold sweeping through his heart.

“You haven’t asked about the freezer,” Mycroft said.

“Should I?” John asked. “Why?” he sat back in the chair crossing his arms across his chest. “Have you smuggled a body in?”

At any other time John would have relished the look on Mycroft’s face. He’d surprised him, broken through that reserve Mycroft wore like his expensive trench coat.

But now John felt nothing but terror, his autonomic nerve system kicking into overdrive. “What have you done?” he asked voice harsh. “What in God’s name have you done and why the hell have you unleashed whatever it is on my parents?”

Mycroft stood slowly, carefully ensuring John could see his hands at all times. “I’m just going to retrieve something in my jacket pocket, alright?”

“Don’t be an ass,” John said.

“You’ll forgive my cautiousness but it was you holding a gun on me.”

“That’s right,” John said, his head dipping in acknowledgment. “Very good. Best remember that, as you say.”

Mycroft slid his hand inside his jacket and came away with a silver flask.

John shook his head in disbelief. “Are we moving onto Irish coffee now?” He picked up his tea cup and drained it. “I think I’ll just have mine neat,” he said.

“As you wish,” Mycroft said, pouring two fingers into the delicate china. “And to put your mind at ease….” He trailed off, likewise drained his tea and poured himself a healthy portion.

The fire of the whiskey burned all the way down, and John took a deep breath. “All right then,” he said. “Let’s have it. I’m assuming you didn’t arrange this little [tête](http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/t%C3%AAte#French)-[à](http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%C3%A0#French)-tête so you and I could spend a weekend together reminiscing over better days. What is it ?”

Mycroft cleared his throat and hesitation skidded over his features so quickly that John blinked. Surely not.

“John,” Mycroft began. “I uhm…I want you to know that I’ve always held you in the highest esteem. What you did for my brother was more than anyone else ever has.”

“Ever had,” John corrected. “Not has. Had.”

A short nod was all Mycroft relented. “As you wish.” He took a shallow breath and John felt his internal alarm bells going off.

“John, I need you to walk me through that day. The last day.”

Head jerking up so quickly he heard his neck pop he responded, voice tight. Low. “No. No. Just No.”

“Apologies, John. But I really must insist.”

“Why?” John spat. “What could it possibly accomplish?”

“I think it would be best if we could walk through that day.”

“Best for whom?” John shouted. Maybe this was the reason Mycroft needed the bloody James Bond glass installed in his parents’ home.

Mycroft went back to his infuriating impassivity, pulling out his, phone. “We can do it the easy way, as I suggested –“

“ – How in bloody hell could me reliving the worst day of my life? The day that I watched your brother commit suicide,” John choked on the words, turning his head away. “No.” he looked back, unashamed of the tears on his cheeks. “I have spent the last three years wishing I’d known. I think I’d’ve jumped with him.” A sad chuckle slipped past his trembling lips. “We could have gone out guns a-blazing, as the Americans say. Like Butch & Sundance.” He took shaking breaths.

Mycroft seemed to respect his need for silence, time for equilibrium. As if there was such a thing.

“This is your final decision?” Mycroft asked his voice quiet.

“Yes,” John said. “So if you’re planning something ‘worse’ than making me live through That Day again – ” John reached behind him and pulled out the revolver, holding it out by the gun butt. “Take it. Use it.”

Mycroft didn’t move.

“Because, honestly, Mycroft – I wouldn’t flinch.”

Mycroft stood, and took the gun from John’s rock steady hand. “I’ll just hold onto this for now.” Gesturing for John to move ahead of him, he said. “I’ll kindly remind you that this was your decision.”

John moved his stance cautious. “Where are we going?”

“Why to investigate the contents of your parents new freezer, of course,” Mycroft said, stopping at the foot of the stairs. “Up, if you please.”

“The freezer is upstairs?” John asked.

~ooOoo~

Heart pounding, John went ahead of Mycroft suddenly very sorry he’d surrendered his gun. At the top of the stairs he looked Mycroft, waiting for direction.

“Second door on your right, please,” Mycroft said.

“That’s my – ” John drew a shuddering breath. “If this is some sort of crazy birthday party and a load of people are going to jump out and yell ‘surprise’ you’re several months late. Or early.”

“I think you could call it a birthday party, or re-birth, anyway.”

Buzzing filled John’s ears, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t dare… reminding himself he’d been a soldier, John squared his shoulders, and took a precise step forward. “Right then,” he said. The white china door knob was cool, his sweaty palms causing him to have to re-grip it. He did a double take at the door. It was off somehow.

The door swung open and John grabbed onto the doorjamb to steady himself. In his bed was a porcelain skinned male, tall, thin, ink black hair. He was facing away from the door on his side.

“What the hell?” John whispered.

“He can’t hear you,” Mycroft said, his voice its normal octave.

“What the fuck is this? Of course ‘he’ can’t hear me,” John practically yelled. “’He’ is dead.” His knees buckled and he caught himself, elbows on knees, head down. Passing out was not ruled out at this juncture.

“Recall John,” Mycroft said. “I did try to warn you. I needed you to tell me what you saw that day.”

John shook his head, spangles in front of his eyes just like he’d heard patients explain the onset of a migraine aura. “It’s not possible,” he whispered.

“What did you see?” Mycroft asked.

“That isn’t him,” John said, unable to even look at the bed. “I don’t know what _that_ is, but it isn’t him.”

“John,” Mycroft said. “Regardless of what you believe of me, I can assure you that this is Sherlock.” He stepped forward and picked up the blanket that had been covering the man’s body, not baring it, but an invitation nonetheless. “And he is very much alive.” He nodded. “You were his doctor. Examine him.”

A mournful cry filled the room and John realized it had escaped from his throat.

Mycroft looked nonplussed when John finally met his eyes. He could only assume the terror, the exhaustion, the desire to have died along with Sherlock all showed in his face.

“Don’t forget,” John said. “I’ve been inside Baskerville. This could be a clone for all I know. I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Please,” Mycroft said, lowering the blanket. Not pulling it back up though it now rested at the man’s waist.

He’d seen the shallow rise and fall of the man in the bed’s breathing. With the blanket slid down John winced. Vertebrae stood out in relief. There were scars on the man’s back, still red and angry: so still healing then. He’d averted his eyes as he’d slid his gaze down to where hips began to flair out. He was a doctor for god’s sake. And this wasn’t Sher-. It just wasn’t. And even if it were, there was nothing between them that would account for his gaze settling on that bared hip so possessively.

Forcing himself, John moved to the other side of the bed, stuffing his hand in his mouth to stifle yet another cry. There he was: chest rising and falling. His hair was different, shorter, styled straight. But the mouth, the cheekbones….they were his. They were Sherlock’s.

_“It’s just a magic trick….”_

Glancing at the man’s bare chest John’s eyes skimmed over the almost invisible silver knife slice Sherlock had acquired before they’d met. When John had asked him about it, the first time he’d patched Sherlock up, he had waved his hand as if pushing away the question. “A mere trifle. A disagreement in a bar between a suspect and me.”

Moving closer, even though it pained him, he had to check, to make sure this wasn’t a trick. “Where’s the medical kit?” he snapped.

“Excuse me?” Mycroft asked. “The what?”

“Don’t toy with me Mycroft,” he said. “I’m not the idiot Sherlock took me to be. This man is drugged, presumably brought into the house stashed in the freezer you’ve gifted to my parents. You’re obviously keeping him sedated. I want the med kit.”

Mycroft nodded. “Of course.” He moved to the wardrobe and opening the door, pulled out a med kit similar to the one John had used in Afghanistan.

“I want a pair of gloves and a stethoscope. Now.” John couldn’t take his eyes off the doppelganger in his bed. A hysterical laugh threatened to escape his throat but he forced it down. Military, he reminded himself. He could do this.

A wave of something akin to hunger swept through John as he drunk in the sight of this man: this person who could not be his dead flatmate. He was thinner, leaner actually, still plenty of muscle on him, but this person, had muscles like a swimmer: slim, compact, not an ounce of fat anywhere, as far as John could see.

Mycroft was at his side in a moment with all of the requested equipment. John snapped the gloves on, took a deep and what he hoped would be a stabilizing breath, reached down to run his fingers along the man’s hairline, beginning at his forehead and carefully checking behind his ears.

“He isn’t a body double,” Mycroft said his voice unusually neutral. “There has been no surgical alterations to him, other than the new set of scars you see.”

John cut his eyes to him. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, carefully taking the carotid pulse. And oh how the warmth of that alabaster skin drew him. Forcing his hand away, he stood for a moment, breathing deep, reassuring himself his knees would hold.

Reaching down, he picked up the limp wrist of the man in his bed. Frowning, he shook his head, and began the recount again. And again. This pulse was faster than his carotid pulse had been just moments ago. He locked his eyes on the man’s face.

When nothing changed, John steeled himself, allowing his gaze to travel lower, looking for any other marks: those he’d known about or new ones.

He slid the sheet down further, his finger grazing the man’s hip bone; an angry thick mass of keyloid tissue was bared, lines where infection had taken up residence were easily seen by a doctor. The center of the wound wasn’t quite healed even now the redness surrounding the puncture spoke of a massive infection. “What happened here?” he barked.

“My brother can be contentious sometimes,” Mycroft said, the fake smile plastered on his face. “As much as I tried to keep him from harm, he oftentimes would not call for an emergency evac until – ah – ‘damage’ had been done.”

“Whoever this is,” John said, his voice low, dangerous. “And based upon the scarring pattern, this injury would seem to be a stab wound. One that could have perforated his intestines or, looking at the angle: his kidney. One that became infected. One that still seems to bear infection. Either perforation or the infection could have or perhaps still could kill him.”

Mycroft’s mask slipped for a moment. “It almost did. Both.” He looked away, but pulled the sheet back up over the man. “Perhaps we can go downstairs, have some more tea. If you’re ready to listen.”

Was he? Was he ready to listen? Could it be possible that the man in his childhood bed could be his lunatic of a flatmate? The best friend he’d ever had?

John put the earpieces of the stethoscope in place and after warming the bell against his palm, he placed it on the man’s chest. The heartbeat was steady.

Could it be that the short haired man lying so still could be the one person John had learned the hard way he couldn’t live without?

He removed the scope, stripped off the gloves, and tossed them easily into the bin next to the bed. “Right,” he said. “Lead on.” John moved to the door.

After they’d exited the bedroom, Mycroft pulled a fob out of his pocket and clicked it.

“What was that?” John asked, pausing on the landing.

“I saw that you noticed the minute difference in the door to your bedroom when you entered. Let’s just say that the door, along with the windows installed had a few – ah – enhancements.”

“And the reason that man is naked is?” John asked, moving down the stairs. He was internally chanting, ‘left leg, right leg’ but to their credit, his legs did their job. But just in case, he dropped into the chair he’d been in earlier.

“ _Sherlock_ , is naked for twofold reasons,” Mycroft began, his voice a study in ‘mild reprimand’, as he also resettled himself back in John’s Dad’s chair. “I need Sherlock to give you and me ample time to chat about the current situation we find ourselves in. Secondarily, though equally true, when we dropped him into Bolivia via the same process – more or less – he complained mightily about waking up covered in sweat, clothes reeking and clinging to him."

“In Bolivia?” John asked.

“Yes, John,” Mycroft said. “I assure you Sherlock has not been idle in his time away from you.”

“So you do this a lot then? Drug people and move them about continents?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at John.

“Alright, I get it. Standard operating procedure for someone with a ‘minor’ post in the government.”

Mycroft smiled. “Exactly. While it isn’t the common practice these days, it isn’t unheard of either. Please ask no more questions. I’d hate to have to drug you so that you don’t recall this conversation causing us to have to start all over.”

No point dignifying that with a response. “Okay. You think a door and windows would stop him from getting out? If he is who you say he is you well know nudity will not faze him.”

“Shall I make more tea?” Mycroft asked.

Confused for a moment, John sat in silence. “He’s awake you know,” he said, jerking his head toward the ceiling.

“Excuse me?” Mycroft’s face was as startled as John had ever seen it.

“Whoever he is,” John said, “he’s awake.”

“That’s impossible,” Mycroft said. “I would know if he were faking being unconscious.”

“Well, maybe you would, maybe you wouldn’t. But I’m telling you that man upstairs, naked in my bed, which is a nice touch, by the way given that I’m sure you’re very familiar that four months ago I broke up with the most perfect woman in the world, the woman I thought would be an excellent wife, the woman whose heart I broke when I called your brother’s name at _the_ most inopportune time. Yes: that person, whoever he is, is very much conscious.”

Mycroft had the decency to look abashed. “I knew you saw Ms. Morstan for several months. I knew you’d picked out an engagement ring. And I knew the relationship was suddenly broken off.” His mouth seemed more pinched than usual. “I’m sorry, John.”

This time Mycroft stood and picked up the tea pot. “I won’t be a moment.” And to add to the surrealism of the day, John watched through the dining room and into the kitchen where Mycroft Holmes filled the kettle and pulled down a canister of tea from the usual spot where his mum kept it.

John buried his head in his hands. He could hear his heart beating in his ears. It was impossible. The man upstairs….how many times had he begged Sherlock – graveside and in his dreams to be alive?

And if it were? Possible? What then?

Clenching his own hair, desperate for something to ground him in this alternate reality he found himself in, John heard the inner voice in his head, the cool, velvety slide of the baritone he’d thought never to hear again. ‘ _What do you want? What do you want to happen?’_

“I’ll kill him,” he said aloud. “I’ll bloody well kill him!”

“Ah good,” Mycroft said, coming back in with the tray refreshed. This time with crust less sandwiches on the tray. “So we’ve moving from denial into anger. Well done.”

“When you locked him in my bedroom, it wasn’t just so we could talk uninterrupted then?”

“Well, it was also to ensure you didn’t actually kill him,” Mycroft said, pouring tea and giving it a splash of milk. “However, you quickly surrendered your gun to me so it was an unnecessary precaution.”

“Don’t be so sure,” John said his voice dark. “I don’t need a gun to kill someone.”

Mycroft froze, but then dipped his head once in acknowledgement.

“You know that room won’t hold him,” John said, putting out of his mind how it was that Mycroft knew how he took his tea. Then again, most self-respecting members of the commonwealth did prefer it in just that way.

Mycroft nodded. “If, as you say, Sherlock has regained consciousness, I will rely on his self-control and respect for you to keep him from mowing through the plaster and lathe.”

John laughed, it jarred, painful from deep in his chest: so not a laugh at all. “Respect for me?” He sat his mother’s beloved Portmeirion cup down, resisting the urge to smash it against the wall, staining the cheerful yellow wallpaper.  

Instead he forced a smile, the one he reserved for intakes with new patients. “I don’t believe your brother – if that is who he is – has respect for me. Apparently I meant little enough to him.” he stopped, flushed, and cleared his throat. He knew without looking at Mycroft, he’d said too much.

But John was many things, and very rarely was he a coward. Squaring his shoulders he looked up and met Mycroft’s gaze. Let him see whatever was there **.** “Why’d he do it then?” John asked his voice as neutral as he could manage. “Fake his own death.” He paused, took in a long breath. “Not an easy task. Obviously he had your help.”

Saying the words aloud made it more real and for a long moment John thought the pain in his chest might actually be a heart attack. As a male in his early forties and a combat veteran as well, he wasn’t too young for such a thing. Of course, it was more likely to be a broken heart killing him, rather than a coronary thrombosis.

Mycroft eventually broke off his gaze, sliding it to the side of John’s neck. From his narrowed eyes John suspected he was counting John’s pulse, ensuring he was having no such myocardial infarction. And yet, there were some things, hearts: whether beating or broken that even Mycroft couldn’t fix. “He had no choice, John,” Mycroft said.

“Okay,” John said. “Right.” He cocked his head, “Why’s that then?” And ‘why the bloody hell didn’t he come to me/tell me?’ his internal voice, his own, not Sherlock’s, reverberated in his head.

Mycroft reached forward and picked up a saucer. “Sandwich?” he offered pleasantly. As if they were friends just discussing sports, or politics or a play they’d both seen.

“No,” John said, forcing himself to relax his jaw. It was aching, stiff from clenching.

“I think you should have one,” Mycroft said, picking up two sandwiches, placing them on a small plate and handing them over. “Cucumber & mint and egg & chive."

“I’ve taken the liberty of preparing French coffee press so we can continue with our Scotch, but perhaps a bit more civilized in the tradition of our cousins to the northwest: Irish Coffee.”

“What?” John asked. “No _Belgium_ chocolates or _Italian_ Biscotti to go with? I think you might have missed a country or two in the European tour of that coffee.”

Mycroft smiled this familiar peeved smile, the one he so often wore around Sherlock. John didn’t realize until that moment that he’d missed it.

“Very droll, Doctor,” he said. Standing he excused himself and was back in a moment with the French press and thicker coffee mugs.

They were the earthen mugs of his childhood. They’d belonged to his Gran on his mum’s side.

“God I haven’t seen those in an age,” he said, and found himself smiling. And then he laughed. This time it was genuine, like something had lifted off of his back. “Good Christ Mycroft. I can’t believe much of anything I’ve seen today, I can tell you for sure. And the least of which is that I can’t believe I’ve actually missed you.”

Again Mycroft gave him a single nod of acknowledgement, not quite sharp enough to be curt. Besides, John could see the warmth in his eyes.

~ooOoo~

Drowsy, still unable to move his limbs, Sherlock found his body, as per normal, was not nearly as quick as his mind. It had awakened suddenly, and while it too was a little sluggish, he’d known immediately the touch of John’s hands on his face. He’d know those hands anywhere. And John’s smell. Still using the same washing up liquid, shampoo and clothes detergent then. That was John all over: steadfast.

In the end, Sherlock had been able to handle Sebastian Moran himself. But the assassin had taken his ‘pound of flesh’ as it were, on his way out.

Bleeding out on a cold cement slab of a derelict car park in Wales, Newport to be exact, Sherlock had called himself ten types of an idiot for not seeing the knife. Of course, as it flashed he’d seen enough to admire the murder’s choice of weapon: it was a stylized Bowie knife with finger holes to ensure the user’s hand didn’t slip over the bolster and onto the blade. There were sawback serrations on top of blade, a blade Sherlock judged to be about 7 inches. As the blade slid in, doing its worst to take him with its owner, who was already dead, just still moving, Sherlock saw the handle closer: fake ivory.

How pedestrian.

Telltale gurgling drew Sherlock away from his own imminent demise as Moran collapsed. The ensuing silence was deafening.

It was all but done. Mycroft would take care of the outliers.

John would be safe.

Sherlock stopped fighting the drug currently in his system and let it pull him back under, burrowing as deeply as he could in sheets which he told himself John used to sleep upon.

~ooOoo~

The evening wind was bracing as John walked back toward his childhood home, the place now holding answers to prayers he’d never have believed possible. Up was now officially down, and down was officially up. He didn’t know what he felt. Overwhelming relief? Killing rage? Unfathomable hurt?

Oh Mycroft had well and truly explained it to him. Over and over until logically it made sense. But John couldn’t make his heart understand.

Finally he’d taken Mycroft’s now half empty bottle – they’d finished the flask long ago – of Scotch and poured himself another round and downed it in one go.

Standing on shaky legs he told Mycroft he needed some air. Outside he shook his head, not quite recognizing where he was. How could his entire existence have been turned topsy-turvy yet again because of Sherlock Holmes? But thank God for it.

Gathering his wits, he’d let himself out of the front gate and stood for a moment, unsure where to go. Not really wanting to go anywhere except up the stairs and into his bedroom. To examine him: really examine him. Ensure Sherlock was indeed alive.

Still. Even as he stood there he knew enough to walk away. For now.

Decisively he’d turned and headed away from the town centre not wanting to risk seeing anyone he knew.

Wind whipping around his ears he pulled up the collar of his black leather coat. Tears sprung to his eyes. He harshly wiped them away, remembering a life time ago when he’d chided Sherlock for putting his collar up, all for show.

So he walked, forcing his mind blank, taking deep and even breaths. The scotch eased its grip on his faculties and as he walked, images of him and Harry as they grew up filled his head: learning to ride bikes, begging their dad to let them ride further than just the end of the drive, then further than two doors down on the pavement, and on and on.

He remembered chasing Mrs. Ramsey’s ginger tabby cat under her lilac bushes, diving underneath, no thought for dirt or tender knees, or the scratches bound to come from the cat who had tired of playing.

He remembered his mother’s joy when he’d decided to become a doctor. And her tears when he’d enlisted. And the tears in her voice when he’d been able to call her after being shot.

Memories tumbling like water out of an overflowing bucket now crashed over him as he remembered the first time he’d met Sherlock. That crazy dinner when Sherlock turned him down years before John even knew of his own interest.  The dizzying chase across the heart of London, the gift: his metal cane returned, ‘proving a theory’ Sherlock had said, shrugging it off.

Maybe then, John should have known how much this man would change his life. He’d already done it, hadn’t he? John had ‘seen but not observed’.

It hadn’t all been good. No. No. John had made sure he never canonized Sherlock, dead or alive. And he wasn’t going to start now.

Christ how they’d fought. Or rather John had yelled and Sherlock had ignored him until Sherlock had let loose vitriol that would fell a lesser man. But by then John had learned to read Sherlock’s tells. The more insulting he became the more frightened he was, though Sherlock would protest that deduction, no doubt.

Nothing tripped Sherlock up like ‘sentiment’ which is why, now, headed back toward his parents’ he felt fear coiling in his belly. Would Sherlock be able to accept John now that John knew how he felt?

There was no point in pretending Sherlock wouldn’t see it. Or hadn’t already, before he, well, ‘left.’

Of course, it was completely possible that Sherlock had known all along and had never brought it up. He probably wouldn’t think it mattered.

But John knew it would matter. Because now _he_ knew. And that door, once opened, couldn’t be stepped back through.

Speaking of doors, the last bit of yellow orange sky was draining away into purplish-pink hues when he opened the door to his parents’ house.

The aroma caught him immediately. Cottage pie. And it smelled amazing.

After hanging his coat in the entry way, on the peg next to Mycroft’s long trench coat, John walked into the dining room and stopped dead.

Mycroft was wearing one of his mother’s aprons. He’d tied it around his waist, a study in strawberries on white linen, his carefully rolled up shirtsleeves, and no tie. Frowning John wondered if the Holmes brothers had been given lessons on how to turn up shirtsleeves with military precision.

Mycroft stood with a tea towel double or trebled over as he removed rolls from the oven.

“Hello,” John said, again feeling like he’d fallen down a rabbit hole. Leaning for a moment on the back of the nearest dining room chair he said, “You can cook? Or is this catered from London?”

Mycroft smiled at him. A genuine smile. “It is a bit of both. I did make the Cottage Pie from start to finish.” He nodded toward the pan of French rolls. “These were brought down from London.”

He sat the hot pan down. “Dinner?”

“Sure,” John said. “Why not? The least I can do is pour the wine.”

“It’s decanting on the hutch,” Mycroft said, using his head to gesture toward the pine hutch in the dining room.

“Of course it is,” John said turning to fetch the red wine glasses Mycroft had already located, next to the ‘decanting’ wine.

~ooOoo~

Tucking into the cottage pie, John pushed a Brussels sprout onto his fork, securing the mash and mince. He took a swipe across the gravy and inhaled deeply before eating what had to be his last bite. “Mycroft, I have to say, that is one of the best dinners I’ve had in well – quite a while. Thank you.”

Mycroft tipped his head in acknowledgement.

“So, there was no freezer then?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said, his utensils moving smoothly over his plate, making no sound as he laid them to the top right of his plate. “Two actually. One seemed to be missing – ah, certain parts, so a second one was delivered. The fully functional one is on your parents back stoop.”

John decided he didn’t want to know anymore. “Shall we adjourn?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer, pushed his chair back.

Mycroft’s voice stopped him. “He’s awake, John. Fully. I clothed and fed him while you were out.”

“You clothed and fed him?” John asked, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.

“He took it as well as can be expected,” Mycroft said. “The last time I had to bath and spoon feed Sherlock was when he was seven. He’d fallen out of an apple tree in the orchard, breaking his left arm and badly spraining his right. He’s very weak.” John heard the cautionary tone in Mycroft’s tone. “I also didn’t dress the knife wound. I assumed you’d want a closer look.”

John nodded, unable to speak.

“I’ll take care of the washing up,” Mycroft said.

Swallowing, John felt his stomach lurch. Without another word, he turned smartly and walked to the bottom of the stairs and took a deep breath, putting one foot in front of the other, climbing slowly.

~ooOoo~

In the three years he’d been gone, Sherlock had imagined greeting John over and over.  He’d considered John might be shocked, delighted and a little bit angry perhaps.

Sherlock never imagined John would be as wretched as those sounds he’d had made upon seeing him alive.  The cries had reached his subconscious, teasing him toward awareness.  It was only after he was fully awake did he realize what those cries were: John, suffering. 

Only when the pictures from the homeless network started coming in where recently John looked as hollow and worn out as Sherlock had ever seen him had he realized he might have miscalculated the impact of his leaving upon his flatmate.  Originally Sherlock dismissed it.  It had to be because John had broken up with his fiancée.  

But Mycroft had disabused him of that notion, calling him all the way to Greece to do so.  And whether he liked it or not, Mycroft was seldom wrong.

On the other hand, Sherlock understood the despair all too well, suffering under the weight of his task: hunting down and destroying Moriarty’s network.  Sometimes the hopelessness won and Sherlock gave in, spending two or three days in a narcotic stupor.  But even then, there was one powerful figure that haunted him like an after image burned behind his eyelids: John. John. John.

Nothing had been as important as seeing John safe. Whole. Alive.

Facing John, betrayed by his body, weak, exhausted and barely able to move had never been part of Sherlock’s plan. Yet here he was: placed in John’s own childhood bed, moved and fashioned into a sitting position much like a rag doll. The wound had taken from him, taken so much Sherlock (and even Mycroft, he knew), thought he might not recover.

On that cold damp day, lying on deserted cement, blood had gushed freely with every beat of his heart, until even his hands grew so weak he could no longer able apply pressure. Death held no fear for Sherlock: but the thought of being unable to explain to John why he’d had to jump from St. Barts had been almost unbearable.

Infuriatingly, he’d lost three days before he next came to consciousness, finding himself in a private sanatorium in Switzerland where the white décor surrounding him was almost blinding.

He’d demanded his phone, over and over, until his voice gave out; after a time the nurse on duty had calmly brought it to him, as if he’d politely asked for water.

A few tell-tale ‘clicks’ on the line later, and he was connected to Mycroft who was no doubt lounging on his overly large bottom at the Diogenes whilst billing his ‘long hours’ back to the British Government.

“Rest yourself, brother dear,” Mycroft greeted him. “Within a fortnight, four weeks at the most, all will be righted in your world and you will be able to return to London _in victoriam_. The good doctor will be safe.”

“Is it enough?” Sherlock had rasped. “Will he make it that long?”

Mycroft had paused. “The sisters who are caring for you tell me you cannot yet safely travel.”

“I’m _fine!_ ” he’d managed through gritted teeth. But his voice was but a shadow of its normal self.

This time Mycroft sighed mightily. “No, Sherlock,” he said, finality in his voice. “You are not.”

“Do. We. Have. Time?” Sherlock wrung out, despair clawing at his throat at Mycroft’s evasion of the question.

There was a long, long pause. “I’ll set things in motion in the morning,” he said finally. “But you. You must do as you are told. The infection is not one to be trifled with Sherlock.” He’d paused for effect yet again, the git. “Do you understand me? Everything the doctors and nurses tell you. When they tell you to eat. When they tell you to sleep. When you need pain medication. Every. Thing.”

Sherlock heard the unspoken promise to withhold further assistance yet he could not find it within himself to offer up protest. “Agreed,” he said voice faint.

Even through the line he felt Mycroft’s peaking concern. Sherlock never agreed. Not to something Mycroft dictated. Not since Sherlock had been in knee-breeches.

Sherlock’s hands shook as he hit the ‘end button’ on his mobile. Laying his hand over the heavy bandaged wound with a foul-smelling drain in it, Sherlock could feel the heat. He knew what it meant. And given the diameter of the bandage which wrapped around the side of his hip and onto his back, four times the size of the actual wound, he knew infection had taken hold. Unable to keep his eyes open another moment; he had sunk into oblivion.

Now, weeks later, more awake than he’d been in days, Sherlock found himself memorizing everything his senses could take in about the room. Football and rugby trophies from primary and secondary school respectively on white painted shelves, as if their owner was still in residence, pulling them down from their ledge every so often, remembering glory days. They were dusted, so John’s mum took care of them.

There were books, mostly fiction, and a couple of academic books, neatly standing on end, between two oil rubbed dark bronzes letters: “J” and “W”. To the right hand side of the “W” was a leather box that Sherlock’s fingers itched to have in his hands, wondering what secrets John had hidden from him.

In the corner, Sherlock saw a clarinet case and wondered how he’d not known about that either.

Though exhausted, his head twisted as far as it could and he saw pencil lines progressively moving up the wall. The last one was 1 cm shorter than John’s present height and though Sherlock couldn’t read the ages he suspected the last time John had been measured would have been in his teens.

Hearing the outside door open and then close quietly Sherlock presumed John had returned. Murmuring voices and soft laughter incited rage in his gut and he clenched his jaw, hating Mycroft for breaking bread and sharing wine with John.

Mycroft had cooked for John. For John. His John. He could smell the mince meat and butter from the mash more strongly even than the chicken broth based vegetable soup – also handmade – that Mycroft had sat down on the pine bedside table earlier.

He’d kept his eyes closed as Mycroft helped him to a sitting position, holding him upright as they’d made their way down the hall to the toilet. Gritting his teeth at every touch he’d said nothing while Mycroft used a flannel and the basin to clean him as best he could; nonetheless Sherlock was honest enough to know he’d have never managed on his own.

Surprisingly efficient it wasn’t long before Mycroft had Sherlock in proper pajamas: deep blue linen, bottom and top and back into John’s bed. He’d handed him up a lap desk of some sort that Sherlock hadn’t noticed. _Dammit_. And basically force-fed him.

Mycroft spoke of John, and how he’d known Sherlock was conscious. He relayed how his discussions with John so far had gone: succinctly, without judgmental commentary, for which Sherlock found himself grudgingly appreciative.

Nonetheless, he was hatefully trapped upstairs by a still healing body and the influence of drugs used to get him here. Personally he thought Mycroft had overdone the dosage in order to keep him docile. _As if he could ever._

The clinking of the dishes and a moving of heavy furniture told Sherlock dinner was over.  No doubt John would offer to help with the washing up.

In any case: he was very close to seeing for himself what sort of loss had been inflicted upon John due to his leaving.

He only hoped the reasons were enough to make John stay.

~ooOoo~

Standing outside his bedroom door, John felt like an idiot as he knocked lightly. Not waiting for a response, he opened the door and took a step inside.

There he was. Sitting up. Dressed. Alive.

John felt his knees buckle, as if his body couldn’t fathom what his mind had already taken in. Those pale eyes, the color of sea glass were fixed on him, taking in everything, including the buckled knees, no doubt.

“My God,” John breathed. “I – I know what Mycroft said. And I know I saw you earlier but….” And he broke off. What was there to say?

“John – I – ”

“Right,” John said, cutting off the voice he’d missed. Not now. Not yet. He pulled himself upright and pulled his shoulders back to the point that his wounded one ached with the tension. “I want to see that stab wound,” he said his voice matter of fact.

Sherlock’s eyes were wide, with the kind of innocence that had often melted John’s resistance when they’d lived together. All too often he’d looked like a lost little boy, most usually when the emotions of others around him tripped him up.

John went to the wardrobe and removed the medi-kit again, straightening he turned to look at the miracle in his bed.  Too thin, too pale, hair too short and too straight. Christ but he was a sight for sore eyes. He was somehow even more beautiful than he’d been before. The hair made him look younger, the bastard. John grimaced remembering seeing his father in his own mirror this very morning.

Was it really just this morning? How could it have been just this morning?

Soldier on, John told himself. This time he pulled out his desk chair and placed the bag on it. Snapping one of the gloves on, he retraced the same steps he had previously, to the side of his bed. Now he forced his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. “May I?” he asked permission.

Silent, Sherlock nodded.

With his ungloved left hand – not trembling, thank you very much, he moved the covers aside. Once again, he glanced at Sherlock, his hand hovering over his pajamas.

Again, Sherlock silently granted permission.

John scooted the top up, frowned. The bottoms were up higher than Sherlock normally wore them. Mostly likely due to the wound. He touched the waist of the bottoms. “Mycroft told me you were weak,” he began. “But can you budge up so I can pull these down a bit?

  
“Yes,” Sherlock said, his voice deep, rougher than John remembered it. He lifted his hips and John pulled the bottoms down to expose the wound, nothing further.

Turning back to the chair, he snapped on the second glove, laying his hand carefully on the outermost region of the wound, checking for heat. The lines of infection had spread significantly away from the actual stab wound. “It’s a fair bit of luck you didn’t die,” he said, moving around the bed, so he could see the backside of the wound, looking for remaining infection. Sherlock obediently turned up on his side so John could inspect his back. Satisfied, he carefully touched Sherlock, signaling he could lie back down.

“I’ll dress that,” he said, moving back to the bag, looking for gauze pads & roll, and adhesive.

“I’ve got blood on my hands, John,” Sherlock said.

John stiffened, and turned around, looking from the wound to Sherlock’s hands. “Sherlock, you’re fine. The wound is fine. Well, when I say fine, I mean it hasn’t reopened. I don’t what sort of chemical cocktail Mycroft had you on but I will be discussing a further need for a stronger antibiotic.”

He looked at Sherlock’s hands, pale and thin as ever. Pulling off the gloves, he reached over, picking up Sherlock’s left hand, a shock of electricity as he touched him for the first time without gloves between their skin. John ran the pad of his own fingers over Sherlock’s finger tips, as if searching for something. He wondered –

“No,” Sherlock said. “I haven’t played the violin since I left….Baker Street.” He looked away but John tracked his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. “I was not speaking of blood in the literal sense,” Sherlock said, his voice quiet. He turned back to lock gazes with John.

“I know,” John said.

He didn’t remove his hand from Sherlock’s and Sherlock didn’t pull away. “I’ve missed your playing.” Now John had to look away, clearing his throat, trying to swallow down the ball of emotion in his throat. Huffing a few breaths through his nose, John tried to get control.  Instead he looked back. After all, if he was willing to let Mycroft see into the very heart of him, it was only fair to let Sherlock see as well.

_“He’s not like that. He doesn’t feel things that way, I don’t think.”_

Ironic that his own words might condemn him, John knew. What if Sherlock truly wasn’t able to feel things ‘that way’? Would he even welcome John back into his life knowing John’s feelings had changed?

Now he pulled away and finished digging out the needed supplies for the dressing. New gloves back on, John efficiently and professionally covered the wound. “That was a nasty knife,” he said. “Not standard issue I take it?”

“No, not quite,” Sherlock said.

Repacking the medical supplies, John set the bag at his feet and pulled the chair closer, to sit by the bed. By Sherlock.

John knew he’d been being scanned ever since he’d walked into the room. Sherlock drinking him in, learning what he’d missed just by the new wrinkles on John’s face. What would he see there? And when he saw it, would it once again cast Sherlock from his life?

But Sherlock alive and breathing, with or without John, was enough. It had to be enough.

“Right then,” he said, squaring his shoulders. In for a penny….. “What do you see?”

Sherlock took a stuttering breath, his eyes widening.

“Go on,” John said. “I know you’re dying to tell me.”

“’Dying’ is an unfortunate choice of words,” Sherlock said, his voice cautious.

“Yes,” John said, a tight smile playing over his face before it was gone. “I suppose it is.”

“I’ve hurt you,” Sherlock said, brows furrowed. “I can assure you that was the least of my intents.”

John nodded. It wasn’t the best of apologies but he’d take what he could get. “And?”

“You’ve gone back to work full time as a doctor. You’ve lost 1.6 stones, which now puts you at the low end of the weight bracket for your height. Indeed it is the lowest weight you’ve been at since you were a medical student and eating barely at all due to a lack of funds.”

“How?” John began, and then stopped. He felt a bit of the ice in his heart begin to melt. “You have memorized my entire medical record, haven’t you? Mycroft slipped it to you when I moved into Baker Street.”

Sherlock’s lip curled in disgust. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “I hacked the NHS and Army records myself.  I like to keep the ‘favors’ I owe Mycroft as few as possible.”

John chuckled, “Yes, of course, what was I thinking?”

“You weren’t,” Sherlock said, teasing in his tone. “Nothing changed there then.”

Laughing aloud, John reached over and squeezed Sherlock’s hand, taking a moment to drink in the smile on Sherlock’s face. “God you’re an idiot,” he said.

“Again,” Sherlock drawled, “Utterly predictable,” his eyes alight with mischief.  But John saw guardedness there as well.

“Would you like me to tell you what you’ll say next?” Sherlock continued.

“Go on then, you tosser.” John said.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and John jolted when Sherlock lowered his eyelids, looking up at him through ridiculously long lashes. “No,” he said, drawing out the word like treacle, his voice dropped even deeper, sliding with velvet, and as riveting as John had ever heard it. “No, I don’t think so. I think you’d like me to finish telling you what else I see. Then I’ll tell you what you’re going to say.”

John swallowed against a dry throat. “Fair dues,” he agreed.

“You haven’t been back to see Mrs. Hudson at 221B, though you have met at other locations for coffee, though not often. Seeing her is too painful. You and Harry are still estranged. You’ve not seen Mike either. You have not forgiven Lestrade, can’t blame you on that front,” Sherlock said. “Mycroft refused to comment but you threatened him when you found him in your parents’ home.”

“Yes, I did,” John confirmed.

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, eyes scanning. “You moved in with a woman after a time. You were engaged to marry her.”

John blanched.

“Ah – not exactly ‘engaged’ then,” Sherlock said, eyes flitting over John’s face. “But a ring had been picked out or some sort of formal planning had begun. Am I right?”

‘Yes,” John said voice quiet.

“And yet something stopped you.” Sherlock was peering at him with concentration.

John had forgotten how heady it could be to have Sherlock’s full attention, never mind how exposed it made him feel, now more than ever. He slid his fingers down to Sherlock’s wrist, automatically counting for ten long silent seconds. “Yes, something stopped me.”

Sherlock took in a sharp breath, the ‘oh’ caught silently, trapped between those ridiculously full lips. “It was me,” he said.

John ran his finger up Sherlock’s wrist, caressing it. “It was you,” he confirmed.

“But you didn’t know – ”

“No. I didn’t,” John said. “But I knew Mary deserved more than just part of me.”

“But that makes no sense, John.” Sherlock said, eyes screwed up in confusion. “You had no way of knowing you’d ever see me again. Over a year had passed. Isn’t that the traditional grieving period before someone moves on with their life?”

John took a shuddering breath. So this was it then: Sherlock couldn’t understand. “Sometimes ‘sense’ doesn’t play into it,” he said, suddenly very tired. He let go of Sherlock’s hand, and stood. “I’m going to get some sleep,” he said. “You need to sleep as well.”

“What?” Sherlock demanded his voice strident. “What happened? Why are you leaving? John?”

Stopping, John felt his shoulders sag. “It’s too much, Sherlock,” he said. “I need some time."

“Time for what?” With a little grunt of effort he pushed himself up, “John – I – you just got here.”

Oh what the hell. “Sherlock, I was in love with you,” he said, voice breaking.

Sherlock’s head snapped back as if John had slapped him.

“Don’t be absurd,” he said, his face screwing up in what looked like contempt. “You were never ‘in love’ with me.” He stared. “Were you? Why would you have been?”

John’s laugh was haunted. “No reason at all,” he said.

Sherlock blinked, as if trying to recall something was just outside his grasp.

“I didn’t know it,” John said, relenting. “I didn’t know until recently,” he said, cursing himself for once again being moved by the little-boy-lost look on Sherlock’s face. “And now that I know it, I need time to think.”

“What about?” he asked, eyes wild now.

“Sherlock,” John began, moving back to the bed. “It’s okay.” He waved his hand. “This – this is a lot to take in.”

“But you said you understood. Mycroft said he explained it.”  Sherlock’s eyes were scanning, moving so fast John worried about his optical nerve.

“He did,” John ground out. “But when I woke up this morning you were _dead_. Just like you’ve been for the last three year! Do you understand?” Christ. John needed him to understand. He didn’t have it in himself to explain any more. Not tonight.

“Well, yes,” Sherlock snapped. “I mean. No. No I do not understand.”

“Sherlock,” John said his voice a groan. But he sat on the edge of the bed, “I have lived with you being dead for a very long time.” He took Sherlock’s hand again; shivering when Sherlock covered it with his other one.

“And I thought this would be a good thing?” Sherlock cocked his head.

“Can you really be so thick?” John snapped. “Of course it’s a good thing, you _idiot_. But I need time to adjust.”

“And you can’t do that around me?”

John narrowed his eyes, his turn to peer intently at the man in front of him. “You’re purposely being obtuse, aren’t you?”

Sherlock’s mouth narrowed and he closed his eyes. His grip on John’s hand didn’t lessen. “I missed you, John.”

  
~ooOoo~

John had stayed on the bed with Sherlock until he’d felt the long fingers release their pressure and John confirmed Sherlock was asleep. Even still, he stayed.

Once Sherlock’s breathing had stretched into slower, deep sleep, John stood, his body aching from the stress of the day. He’d quietly hobbled to the door, feeling about 110-years- old.  Flipping off the light switch he left the door open a crack, in case Sherlock needed anything.

Downstairs he found Mycroft on a laptop back in the living room. “Tea’s fresh,” he said. “And I put out the ginger biscuits your mother made. I thought you might like something to settle your stomach.

John groaned as he levered himself down in the chair across from Mycroft.

“Leg paining you?” Mycroft asked.

“Yes,” John said. “And you know what? For once I don’t blame it.”

“It’s been a bit of a shock, yes,” Mycroft agreed. After doing a quick ctrl+alt+delete, he locked the laptop, setting it aside. “I trust you found my brother to be in reasonable health?”

“Yes,” John said. “Though I’d have something to say about that stab wound and infection if I hadn’t known I was the reason he got it.”

“He can be trying,” Mycroft said, moving to fix John tea.

Taking it automatically, John said. “He didn’t want me to leave, but then he fell asleep.” He took a drink of tea and accepted a biscuit off of the plate Mycroft offered. “Ta.”

Setting the tray down, Mycroft lifted a biscuit off the plate and caught John’s eye. “I trust I can count on your confidence where this biscuit is concerned?”

John stared at him a moment, completely lost. Then he laughed. “Of course,” he said.

“And the brandy soaked trifle your mother left but failed to mention?” Mycroft questioned.

“There’s trifle?” John asked. It was one of his favorite desserts.

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “Indeed there is.”

They sat in companionable silence, John still trying to wrap his mind around the day. The mantle clock chimed 9pm, jolting John out of his reverie, a small tired groan escaping his lips.

“You’ve had a long day,” Mycroft said. “Your mother made up your sister’s room and refreshed the linen in their bedroom. Why don’t you go up?”

“And leave you alone with the trifle?” John said, teasing. “Never.”

Mycroft’s mouth twitched. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said.

“You’ve been serving me all day,” John said. “Let me get the trifle. I’ll put the kettle back on. Unless you’d like brandy?”

“Brandy would be lovely,” Mycroft said, standing anyway. “Your mother showed me where the glassware is. I’ll pour.”

John picked up the tray, leaving Mycroft to collect their teacups.

He stopped just inside the kitchen doorway. It was spotless. Not that John would have expected anything less; rather he would have expected Mycroft to have minions to clean up after him. But perhaps he was wrong, just as he’d been about the cooking.

“No, I did not sneak in cleaning staff after you went upstairs, John,” Mycroft called, snifters clinking together.

“How do you two do that?” John called over his shoulder, moving forward and gently setting the tray down.

“State secret,” Mycroft said.

After sorting out the tea bits and bobs, John pulled out the beautiful trifle, heavy in his mother’s best hand cut Irish crystal.

The bowl secured on the counter, John opened up the cupboard where she kept the matching single serving sized bowls and took down two.

Mycroft arrived, balancing two snifters in one hand. He sat them down, leaning against the counter, looking frightfully casual for once. “What do you think you’ll do now, John?”

Looking between the trifle and the two bowls, he paused, confused. “Serve us?”

“I meant now that you know Sherlock is alive,” Mycroft clarified.

John carefully put the serving spoon down, mimicking Mycroft’s stance, slouched against the counter.  He crossed his arms in front of him.

“I don’t know,” he said, studying his shoes.

They remained silent for a few beats.

“That was what we were discussing right before Sherlock went back to sleep.”

“Mmmmm,” Mycroft hummed. “Are you willing to share your life with him again?”

John’s head snapped back. “Odd choice of words, Mycroft,” he bit out.

“Indeed,” Mycroft said. “But you and my brother have never been ordinary, have you? You’re both extraordinary men. I hardly see either one of you being willing to go back to just being flatmates.”

Shaking his head, John sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want. And even if I did, I doubt Sherlock would want it. He’s Sherlock.”

“He missed you, John,” Mycroft said.

John shivered. “He said that,” John said. “He said he missed me.”

“To my knowledge,” Mycroft began. “My brother has never missed anyone. Or audibly expressed as much since he was a child.”

Turning back to the trifle, John let his thoughts swirl as he busied himself scooping through the layers of whipped cream, raspberry jam, homemade custard and yellow sponge. He could smell the sherry and his mouth watered. After dishing up two healthy portions he turned back to and handed one to Mycroft. “No one speaks of this again?” he asked, holding onto the bowl.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, face cautious. He nodded.

John released the dessert dish. “I don’t think I could move back into 221B, even if it were still available. At least not now.”

“It is still available,” Mycroft said. “I completely understand.” He took a delicate mouthful of the trifle, his eyes closing as if in bliss. “Your mother is to be commended.”

His mouth now full, John could only moan his own agreement.

They ate in silence, a funny little bubble of intimacy in John’s parents’ kitchen. John looked sideways at Mycroft. “In Buckingham Palace,” he began. “You said – ”

“ – I should have never said that,” Mycroft said cutting John off.

“Why not?” John asked. “Because it was untrue?”

“Because it was cruel,” Mycroft said. “And unforgivable.”

John took a bite of the creamy dessert.

“Of course,” Mycroft went on, after spooning up another bite of trifle. “If you’re asking me the veracity of the statement at the time it was made, I _believed_ it to be true.”

“And then there was Irene,” John said.

“Oh, I doubt Irene would have changed Sherlock’s status,” Mycroft said. He sat the dessert dish down and picked up a snifter, rolling the glass in his palm, warming the brandy.

“Well,” John began. “Here’s the thing.” His eyes cut sharply to Mycroft. “And again: to confirm: no one speaks of this,” he pointed toward the trifle bowl and the plate of covered biscuits on the counter. “Yeah?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said.

“If your brother’s status is as you say, then that would make two of us who didn’t know what we’d be doing.” John cleared his throat, bringing his upended fist over his mouth. “I mean, hypothetically speaking. And with a man, at any rate,” he stumbled over his words.

With a fluid movement Mycroft sat the snifter down and slipped closer to John. Or rather: closer to the trifle. He picked up the spoon John had used to dish up dessert and added another two spoonfuls to his own dish. “Well John,” he began. “Hypothetically speaking, I believe you and my brother are wise enough to figure out the mechanics of the situation, should the need ever –” he paused. “Arise.”

His lips twitched and John laughed.

“My apologies for the pun,” Mycroft said.

“Apology not accepted,” John said, shaking his head. “So what should I do about him then?” he asked.

“That is your own affair,” Mycroft responded, his voice as smooth as ever.

“When will it be safe for him to be ‘back’?”

“Relatively soon,” Mycroft said. He sat his empty dessert dish down. “Coffee?”

“Sure,” John said and began tidying up. The water for the coffee was just at a boil when John finished hand washing the dessert plates and spoons. He pulled out cream after sliding the remainder of the trifle into the fridge.

Without a word, they moved back into the living room, settling back in their respective spots. “Give me the name of the antibiotic you think we should change Sherlock to. I assume you took a look at the meds he’s currently on in the medical kit.

“Yes, I did.” John frowned. “Do you have a chemist here you trust?”

“No,” Mycroft said. “I’ll text my assistant and have it brought down in the morning.”

My tax dollars at work, John thought. But given what Sherlock had done for society, he didn’t mind too terribly. He pulled out his mobile and texted Mycroft the drug he’d like to try. “How long are you staying here? At my parents?” he asked.

“I have a proposition for you,” Mycroft said.

John felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“Hear me out,” Mycroft said, correctly reading John’s concern. “So long as Sherlock’s safety isn’t jeopardized this offer is completely negotiable.”

John sighed and glanced at the coffee and cream, wondering if Mycroft had doped it with the amnesia drug he’d mentioned earlier.

“Don’t be petty,” Mycroft said.

John just grinned.

“I can have you put on a leave of absence at the clinic. I’d like you to agree to oversee Sherlock’s health as he recuperates.”

“You’re going to have to pay me a lot more than the NHS, Mycroft,” John said.  “Babysitting your almost hyperactive brother until he is deemed recuperated is one helluva tall order.”

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed. “You would stay at our family estate in Henley-on-Thames.”

“Henley-on-Thames?” John said, working to keep his mouth from dropping open. “Where George Harrison lived?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, and then frowned, “Not exactly the same estate you understand.”

“Okay,” John said. What else could he say?

~ooOoo~

After finishing his coffee and brandy, Mycroft shooed him toward the stairs. “I’ll tidy up and get things ready for you at home.”

“I haven’t agreed yet,” John had said, his feet already on the stairs.

Mycroft was discrete enough to not point out that John would agree in the end.

At the door to his room, he stopped, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting inside. He froze for a moment and then relaxed. “You’re awake then,” he said into the darkness.

“How I could I not be?” a familiar voice drawled. “You and Mycroft have been giggling like schoolgirls in the kitchen.”

“You were awake enough when they brought you in to know where the kitchen is?” John asked, surprised.

“No,” Sherlock said tone abrupt. “But given the sounds of clinking glass, the sound of the kettle going on and off and the general direction of the scents of dinner wafting upstairs I was able to logically presume you ate dessert in the kitchen.”

“You’re very good,” John said his voice neutral. “I’ve always said.” He walked into the room, not turning on the light. He moved around the bed and sat back on his desk chair.

“So,” Sherlock said, almost pouncing. “You admit you had dessert whilst standing in the kitchen. Bit homey that. A bit familiar, don’t you think?”

“Jealous?” John shot back.

“No!”

“Liar,” John said no heat in his voice.

Silence fell between them, not completely comfortable but not too horribly bad either.

“I was wrong,” Sherlock said his voice barely above a whisper.

“Sorry, what?” John said. The liquor and shock must have been more potent than he thought.

“I. Was. Wrong,” Sherlock said again. “I had no idea you’d say you’d been in love with me.”

John groaned, “Please, don’t. I’m sorry I said it.”

“But it’s true?”

“Sherlock,” John said, and for a moment he realized he’d said Sherlock’s name just like Mrs. Hudson did when he’d made a right horrible mess she felt compelled to clean up.

“Look – I have no idea what I feel. All I know is every time I close my eyes I see you diving to your death. And then I open my eyes and here you are.” John drew a sharp breath. He knew the darkness gave him courage. “You – you – you have no idea what you did for me. What you did for my life when you walked into it. And you have no idea what it meant to me when you leapt.”

“I did it – ” Sherlock began, a whine on his voice that made John want to simultaneously grin and punch him.  Perhaps the two weren’t mutually exclusive.

“I know why you did it,” John said, his voice soft. “I understand. But that doesn’t mean my heart understands.”

“I was hardly having the time of my life,” Sherlock said, his voice bitter.

“I know,” John said, reaching forward, taking Sherlock’s hand in his own. He was grateful the temperature of Sherlock’s skin was in the normal range. “I know, I know,” John said, “But I can’t just turn off the grief I went through, and pretend it didn’t happen.”

Sherlock remained silent.

“I’m coming with you,” John said. “I’ll take care of you until you’re better. Until it is safe for you to come back to London.”

“And then?” Sherlock asked his voice sharp.  John could see the tension in his shoulders. “What then?”

John leaned up and brushed his lips across Sherlock’s dry brow, inhaling deeply of the scent of a man he’d never hoped to ever smell again. “I don’t know,” he said against Sherlock’s skin. “But that’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”

Sherlock exhaled deeply and nodded.

John didn’t remove his lips but sighed. Indeed it was.

For now.

~ Fin


End file.
